by Pam Godwin
“Stop.” Throbbing, aching, and growing wetter, her body betrayed her. “I don’t want to ruin the dress or take it off. It took me forever to make everything look just right. And you’re wearing black. The smallest stain will glow like a spotlight. Do you really want to introduce me to the President with come stains on your pants? God, I’m already sweating, and you’re making it—”
“Hey, Kate.” His fingers slipped to her inner thigh and clenched, his voice chillingly quiet. Deadly serious. “Reach into my pants, pull out my cock, and fucking sit on it.”
Her gaze dropped to the captivating curves of his bossy mouth, lingering there before lifting to his eyes, to the swirls of brown glowing in the lamplight.
A tremor erupted low and hot in her belly.
The way he looked at her, the piercing glare that cut right through those dark lashes, grabbed her deeply and completely.
She shivered with goosebumps in her heartbeat.
What was it about this man? This scary, stubborn, rude, horribly sexy man? He tied her up in knots, sometimes literally, and she wanted it.
She really did.
She fucking ached for him.
“You want me to fuck you?” she asked quietly.
“That’s what I said.”
The fact that they were discussing it instead of doing it gave her pause. Usually, he skipped the conversation and went right to stripping her clothes and working over her body.
Something had changed.
He’d apologized for raping her. Did that mean it wouldn’t happen again?
She yanked her arm out of his grip and backed away, testing his sincerity.
He remained seated, his lips twisted in frustration and anger as he tracked her retreat to the door.
When she reached the hallway, her pulse pounded, and her muscles tensed, braced for him to chase her.
But he didn’t. He slowly lowered to his back and rested an arm over his eyes, breathing heavily.
“You’re not going to force me?” She clutched the doorframe.
“I’m trying, Kate.” He adjusted the rigid length of his cock. “Go on. I’ll be out in a second.”
She stepped into the hall, squinting at him.
He would be fine. It was just an erection, and it was good for him to be denied.
Except she was denying herself.
Her need for him dripped and pulsed between her legs. What was the point in opposing something she wanted? Just to be stubborn?
Maybe this was a sick game of reverse psychology? But why would he bother with a mind fuck when he could just pin her down and fuck her like all the other times?
This wasn’t a game.
He regretted forcing her, and she felt that at gut level.
They were already late, and the truth was she couldn’t leave him like this. It went against every instinct inside her.
Fuck it.
She strode into the bedroom and shut the door. “I feel like the flakiest woman in existence.”
He raised his head and lifted to his elbows, his gaze following her approach, pupils flaring.
“I changed my mind.”
“Thank, fuck,” he growled.
“But I want this on my terms.” She glided her hands along the back of the gown, trying to locate the invisible zipper.
“What are your terms?”
“I get to be in control.” Her skin heated, and her body bloomed into a galloping throb, fortifying her decision. “Can you handle that?”
“I don’t know.” He watched her hunt for the zipper and gripped his dick through the trousers. “Leave on the dress.”
After a few more seconds of searching, she gave up and reached for the floor-length hem.
There was a lot of material to collect, and as she gathered it up her legs, his hands ghosted up the backs of her thighs, caressing, urging her to move faster.
Once the dress was ruched around her waist, he held it in place while she crawled over him and opened his fly.
He lifted his hips as she dragged the pants and briefs to his knees. His cock jutted upward, beautifully shaped and leaking a clear bead of moisture from the slit.
She wanted to taste it, ride it, and come all over it. Maybe that was wrong for someone in her situation. Maybe it was a psychological condition. But it didn’t change how she felt.
“Don’t just stare at it.” He dug his fingers into her thigh.
She clutched him, enclosing both hands around the thick, turgid, burning hot length.
A groan rumbled in his chest, his thighs flexing as he pushed himself into the squeeze of her fists.
“Fuck, Kate.” His hand enclosed hers, tightening her fingers the way he liked it. “Goddamn, I need you. Come here.”
“Stop bossing.” She inched up his body and straddled his hips, careful not to mess up his tuxedo. “We’re going to do this quick. I’m worried about our clothing and—”
“Shut up, and put me inside you.” His hand guided her fingers up and down his cock, angling his hardness to fit at her entrance.
She knocked his arm away and took over, stirring his plump crown through her folds, readying her body, making herself wetter, hungrier.
His fingers joined in, stroking her pussy and rubbing her arousal over the head of his cock.
What now? She’d never done this before. What if she bent his dick when she sat on it?
“You’re ready.” His voice cracked, his bedroom eyes reading the expression on her face. “Just slide down. You won’t hurt me.”
He laced their fingers together, and his other hand went to her waist, pushing down with impatience.
“I’ve got this.” She braced herself on the twitching bricks of his stomach. “Relax.”
His grip loosened on her waist, and she lowered her body, taking him in inch by hard inch. His jaw stiffened, and the cords in his neck strained taut as he groaned deep and long in the back of his throat.
“Holy fuck, Kate. So good.” He kicked his hips, thrusting to get deeper. “Mierda, you feel sinful.”
“Stop moving.” She pressed a hand on his thigh beneath her, trying to calm his need to dominate. “Let me do this.”
“Then do it. Fuck me.”
Holding their entwined fingers against her midsection, she flattened her other hand on his abs and rocked her hips.
Each movement wrenched a groan from him. When she lifted and lowered, sliding him in and out in languid rolls and undulations, he started to pant.
His hungry responses spurred her faster, harder, until their gasps became one. She threw her head back and writhed on him, losing herself in the pleasure, until his fingers closed around her nipple piercing and painfully tugged.
“Eyes on me.” His accent rolled over her, as thick as the Venezuelan humidity.
She met his gaze, and in one look, he obliterated everything between them. There was no air, no fear, no words.
It was a monumental moment. She was on top of him, controlling the pace and rhythm, fucking him into the bed. Something he’d never allowed anyone else to do and would probably never allow again. It was all there in his eyes, drowning her in the gravity of it.
“Give me your mouth.” He caught her neck and yanked her to him.
She fumbled around his tuxedo coat until her arms found a safe place to land. Then she leaned up, her chest flush with his, and kissed him.
He let her take a few gentle licks before he annihilated her easy pace with his aggressive, sinful tongue.
That tongue was a weapon, wielded by a wicked, kinky, eternally horny man, who was wrinkling the hell out of his formal wear and thrusting his hips like he didn’t have a care in the world.
No, that wasn’t true.
In a disturbing, deeply moving way, he cared about her. She felt it in the massage of his fingers on her thigh, heard it in the unbridled rush of his breaths, and saw it in the beautiful, extraordinarily thoughtful design he’d carved into her skin.
She’d never been this close to anyone, physi
cally or emotionally, and she felt forever bound to him. Not by handcuffs or threats or the cock inside her. This connection ran deeper, beyond anything she could touch with her hands or see with her eyes.
They were joined on an inexplicable level, and it scared the hell out of her. Because nothing was more terrifying than the beautiful, dangerous threat beneath her and his total and utter possession of her senses.
Pressing closer, she ate his mouth with all the confusion and passion burning inside her. Her hips moved with abandon, chasing the release they both needed.
Tongues moving in tandem, hands kneading and clinging, they groaned together and came up for air.
A pained sound pushed past his lips. The muscles in his face pulled taut, all those gorgeous, masculine angles unable to conceal his discomfort.
“What’s wrong?” She froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“Trying not to come.” He captured her hand and pressed it between her legs. “Touch yourself.”
That she could do.
Sitting up, she circled her fingers around her clit and quickly found the right pace and pressure. Swift, consistent movements, in sync with the snap and twist of her hips.
His gaze smoldered, bouncing between her eyes and her touch, back and forth. He licked his lips, bit down on the bottom one, and his legs began to tremble.
He was fighting it, trying to hold back his orgasm, waiting for her.
Watching his groaning, shaking effort was enough to send her over. The climax tore through her in dizzying, magical ripples of electricity.
“Kate,” he moaned, clutching her waist and staring into her eyes. “I’m coming. Ahhh, fuck!”
With a guttural groan, he jerked into her erratically and buried himself deep, holding her against him as he filled her with his come.
“Fucking amazing,” he said on a long, languorous sigh. “Thank you.”
“That’s a first.” Twitching with the sparkling remnants of ecstasy, she collapsed on his chest.
“Which part?”
“You thanking me for anything.”
“I’m working on rectifying that.” He brushed her hair behind her ear and blew out a breath. “We need to go.”
“I’ll get a towel to clean us up.” She lifted, letting him slip from her body.
“Don’t.” He straightened his pants and tucked his dirty cock behind the zipper. “You’re going to wear my come to dinner.”
“How romantic.”
He rose to his feet, pulling her with him. His hands smoothed over the dress, straightening and adjusting, and all the while, she could feel his ejaculation leaking down her legs.
She would just have to use the bathroom on the way out and clean up the mess.
As if reading her mind, he sneaked a hand under the gown and smeared the come down her thighs and in her pussy.
She gasped. “What the—?”
He rubbed those same fingers across her mouth. “Let’s go meet the President.”
During the two-hour drive to dinner, Kate fretted over whether she reeked of sex or had a wet spot on the back of her gown. As it turned out, the President of Venezuela was in no position to notice.
Not only was he a busy man, life hadn’t been kind to him in the hygiene department.
As Tiago clasped his outstretched hand in greeting, she had to hold her breath and stifle her gag reflex.
The elaborately-decorated, so-called dictator smelled like a burnt cigar soaked in the anal gland discharge of a dead skunk. She wasn’t even sure which part of his body the offensive odor was coming from.
Maybe it was best she didn’t know.
Thankfully, the introductions lasted just long enough for a handshake, a distracted smile in her direction, and a brief conversation with Tiago in Spanish. Then his brigade of uptight assistants ushered him off to the next partygoer.
Tiago hooked an arm around her back and touched his mouth to her ear. “The air is safe to breathe again.”
“Jesus,” she whispered on an exhale. “What was that?”
“The aroma of corruption and power.” He steered her toward the bar.
“You don’t smell like that.” She smirked.
He smirked back before calling out his drink order to the bartender.
On the way to this majestic beachfront mansion, he’d explained they were going to a private island owned by one of the President’s diplomats. The last jog of the journey had involved a car ferry from the mainland. She hadn’t been able to see the ocean in the dark, but for the first time in her life, she’d detected the scent of salt and brine and heard the roll of waves.
They’d only been on the island for thirty minutes, entering the main hall at the end of dinner. The hundreds of tuxedos and gowns in attendance had been too busy stuffing their faces to pay any attention to the late arrivals.
But she felt their eyes now.
Pinched-faced, scowling men and women filled the ballroom, all of them glaring at the man at her side. Apparently, they didn’t like the King of Caracas in their presence.
“Some of these people are staring so hard,” she said under her breath, leaning back against the bar, “when you leave tonight, your ears are going to be on fire.”
“They want my city.” With his body facing the bar, his assertive hand glided across her stomach and closed around her hip. “And the gorgeous woman on my arm.”
“Pretty sure they just want you dead.” She spotted Arturo at the entrance of the ballroom, his gaze ever-watchful.
“That, too. But we’re safe tonight. No one will try to kill each other with the President’s armed forces on the premises.”
If there were armed guards in the room, their weapons were concealed beneath tuxedos. Arturo was the only face she recognized, and he didn’t have a gun. Every visitor in this house had to go through a metal detector.
She’d asked Tiago a thousand questions during the drive, and he’d only answered a few. While he was hunted by American government agencies and Mexican cartel, he’d assured her the President of Venezuela had more enemies than he did.
That did nothing to calm her nerves.
The bartender handed him the finished drinks. Tiago kept the tumbler of clear fluid and offered her the wine glass.
“What is this?” She took a small sip and widened her eyes.
“Vino Pasita. Wine made from bananas.”
“Wow.” She swallowed another greedy gulp and licked her lips, savoring the burst of sweet, fruity flavors. “This is heaven.”
“You only get one. The hangover is a slow death of agonizing pain.” He clasped her hand and guided her through the crowds of formal wear, his whisper a caress at her ear. “I need to rub some elbows and finalize a few deals. Enjoy your vino and don’t leave my side.”
For the next hour, she remained on his arm like a silent gold ornament, mesmerized by his sensual Spanish parlance as he hobnobbed with politicians, Venezuelan celebrities, and random powerful bad guys.
During each introduction, he announced her as Kate. Some of the faces she recognized. Others she knew by name. If she had a phone, she would’ve been burning up the Internet in an attempt to learn about these people.
After another hour of standing around in six-inch heels, her feet throbbed. Her delicious wine was long gone, and maybe she was just overstimulated by all the conversations, but something niggled. She felt edgy. Almost paranoid.
Her scalp tingled, and the constant itch between her shoulder blades had her searching the crowds at her back every few seconds.
Arturo hadn’t moved from his position near the door. Nothing seemed amiss.
She needed another drink.
With no servers in the vicinity, she lifted Tiago’s tumbler from his hand. He glanced at her while continuing his conversation with the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
She gave them a soft smile and sipped from the glass.
Well, crap. He was drinking water? Useless.
A younger man stood beside the old politician. She couldn
’t remember his name, but she didn’t like his eyes. Especially when they fell to her chest. It was quick. A dip down and back up. But it happened, and Tiago didn’t miss it.
His neck rolled, and his biceps hardened, crushing her fingers in the bend of his arm.
Desperate to diffuse his temper, she glanced around the room, and an idea struck.
“Sorry to interrupt your conversation.” She set his glass aside and rubbed a soothing hand over his clenched fist. “Will you dance with me?”
“Yes.” He said his goodbyes through gritted teeth and escorted her across the room to the dance floor. “Trying to distract me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know how to dance to this?”
Dozens of couples spun to the fast, creole-like music. Hands clasped, they faced each other, making small, stomping steps. They all moved in the same speed and style, using waltz turns and sweeping foot movements. She’d never seen anything like it. Maybe it was the fandango. Definitely not the tango.
“I have no clue.” She didn’t know how to dance at all.
“It’s the joropo, the national dance of Venezuela.” He led her to the side of the dance floor where the band congregated.
At least twenty musicians played guitars, maracas, harps, mandolins, and multiple other instruments she couldn’t name.
He whispered something to the maestro, and a moment later, the music segued into a slow Spanish number.
“Better?” He stared at her mouth and brushed a thumb across her lower lip.
She nodded. “I think so?”
He guided her to the center of the dance floor and held her tight against the front of his body. Then he swayed into an easy rhythm, keeping his steps simple and slow, as if he knew she didn’t know how to dance.
If the room was watching, she didn’t notice. She was only aware of the strength of his arms around her back and the heat of his breath on her neck.
She ran her hands up the strong column of his neck and spoke against his mouth in an almost-kiss. “I like you like this.”
“That so?”
“Yeah.” She pressed her smile against his cheek, delighting in the scratch of stubble that had grown in within a few hours.
